


Anne’s Journal

by alepyt



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Anne’s journal, Falling In Love, P.T. Barnum’s Circus of Curiosities, The Greatest Show on Earth, cartwheeler
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-12 21:33:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17475359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alepyt/pseuds/alepyt
Summary: Anne enjoys journaling to gather her thoughts, she’s done it since her early adolescence and now writes about her experiences at Barnum’s, particularly about one Phillip Carlyle.“...And so I keep wondering about him, about his mind and about his eyes. How can they possibly be that blue? How can they possibly be that warm?”





	1. his audacity

**Author's Note:**

> This is a page off of Anne’s journal around the time Phillip had recently joined the circus. This is my first Greatest Showman fic, I hope you like it.

Today’s rehearsals were high spirited. Some of our best ones. We did two full run throughs back to back with everything turning out as it was supposed to. Afterwards, the gang started gathering in small groups and mostly just talked or joked around. I was with Charles, Vas, and W.D. really more of a listener than a participant in their conversation. I eventually turned my attention elsewhere after Charles kept insisting he could arm wrestle both Vas and W. D. and successfully take them down.

Offstage, I spotted Mr. Carlyle speaking to Lettie as she gave him one of her vibrant laughs. Mr Carlyle — Phillip as he has insisted we call him, simply smiled somewhat shyly next to her. He looked like a child when he smiled like that. See I sometimes wonder about him. Elegance and dignity one minute, all audacity the next. He and Lettie have become quite close I suppose, although one could argue Lettie is close to everyone here. She’s like everyone’s big sister. 

Just then he looked over to where I was and we locked eyes for a moment, which made me look down abruptly. I confused myself. I’m used to people staring at me, and when they do, I like to hold their gaze until they’re the ones to break eye contact. It’s like a little game I play. Only this time I lost.

I decided to go and change out of my leotard but as I headed upstairs and walked past the fence he caught up to me. Phillip. 

“That was a great show up there.” He said, “It’s like watching the clouds dancing in the sky.”

“Thank you.” I replied, “that’s precisely the point, to give the people a show no matter where they look at.” 

He nodded, “How foolish of them to be looking anywhere else.” 

The audacity. I couldn’t help the smile on my face, as much as I tried to suppress it. 

“Are you coming back down? Some of us were talking about getting drinks.” 

I had intended to call it a night since rehearsals were back to back, and my right shoulder was acting up a bit, but something in me had also learned to love those nights of camaraderie even when it meant W.D. and I being the only sober people there. Ever since I can remember, W.D. refuses to drink more than a couple (or curse) in my presence. That’s one of his rules.

“Sure. Just for a little while.” I replied. 

The idea seemed more and more appealing the more I thought of it. So here I am and before I end up writing full pages I better change and get back down soon or I’ll miss the part where everyone’s volume is still decent enough for one to hold a conversation without shouting. 

Until next time.  
Anne.


	2. his eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne writes about how being a “curiosity” makes her feel... and about how one Phillip Carlyle makes her feel.

A few days ago the Barnum girls came over to spend the afternoon with us. Caroline and Helen. They are both sweet, well behaved children, just as curious as their father. Usually they dance along, sing, and even mimic some of the movements from a lot of the different numbers. 

You could say I have a soft spot for them. They have both shown me not only respect but admiration, and even their friendship since they sometimes insist I play with them. I politely decline of course since it’s not my place to do so, and, I am at work after all.

One who I’ve yet to see decline such a request though is Phillip Carlyle. The first time I saw him interact with the girls he pretended to make coins and other trinkets appear from behind their ears or below their chins. A few days after that, he was sitting in on one of our full run throughs as he often did, to take notes on how the show could decrease liabilities, increase profit, and take care of the logistics of the full show in general. The girls were sitting next to him and I could see them making observations of their own and sharing them with Phillip. 

After the actual show that day, people lingered wanting to take one last look at one or all of us. It was becoming a thing lately, P.T. was happy that the audiences seemed to be left wanting more but at the same time was looking for ways to make them leave the premises faster so new people could enter for the second show.

Phillip tried to convince P.T. that people staying for a few minutes after each show was actually a good thing, since people then would feel like part of the family, and were more likely to both come back and recommend the show to their acquaintances. Not to mention they will see the cast for what they are... people, not that different from themselves. A bit less “oddities” a bit more “artists”.

I couldn’t believe he said that. I mean, I do consider myself an artist, of course. I think most of us do here, but we have become so accustomed to being The Curiosities, strange, unique... different... that it gets easy to forget that at the end of the day we are just people, artists, entertainers. Not because of our peculiarities but because of our talent.

P.T. has shown and confirmed to us here that being different is a strength, that we have nothing to be ashamed of, and has put us front and center for the world to see. But I have felt different, judged, stared at my whole life, I’ve never known anything else. So for me, there is an appeal and a beauty I see in being considered a trapeze artist, and nothing else. See I do wonder if P.T. would have hired W.D. and I if our skin was more like his. Do we bring more to his show because we’re “different”, “controversial”, or because we are talented?

Hearing Phillip trying to convince P.T. that day made me feel authentic. Understood. It made me consider things I hadn’t before. I still wonder what his act is too. I wonder about his previous work. I know until recently he was a highly regarded playwright although he doesn’t talk about his plays at all. I have heard through my cast mates that they were pretty grim stories, even cynical. That’s somehow the same man that pulls trinkets out of little girls’ ears and gets a kick from it. The same man who decided to leave everything and join the circus.

I wonder if his creative mind continues to create new worlds and characters and dialogue. Maybe this time based on some of us. How would our show look like through his eyes? How would I look like? Would I be a secondary character? An antagonist of sorts? A love interest? Would it be a colorful interpretation of something darker?

And so I keep wondering about him, about his mind and about his eyes. How can they possibly be that blue? How can they possibly be that warm?

Until next time.

Anne.


	3. his plays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne and Phillip get to talking about his work as a playwright.

The other day I was struggling with my right shoulder again, I keep promising myself I’ll warm up for longer periods until it gets back to normal, but my need to be up there on the hoop, or flying through the ropes gets the better of me, and I’m only reminded of my pain until my muscles have cooled off afterwards.

I kept grabbing my shoulder. Phillip came over with a crock of ice and a cloth.

“Maybe this will help.” He said.

I took the cloth placing some of the ice in it, then pressing it on my shoulder. Phillip stayed for a while and we talked.

He asked about how I first started trapezing, had I always loved it as much, was it ever scary to be up there... 

His curiosity was sincere and I felt comfortable sharing those stories with him. He also asked about my shoulder. My first instinct was to lie, since I knew his job was to keep things running smoothly on the circus and I didn’t want to be pulled off of any of the performances. But he was looking straight at me with such kindness in his eyes. He wasn’t a businessman then. He was a friend. And so I confided in him.

I told him how my pain comes from an old unattended injury and it just flares up from time to time. “An old trapeze injury?” He asked, but my silence was all the answer he needed. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t intrude.”

“It’s alright. That’s in the past now.” I said,

“Past lives.” He smiled softly, “I wonder how many lives we get. How many opportunities to get it right, how many possible outcomes there are written in the universe for us.... do we ourselves come up with new ones?”

“Is that why you decided to become a writer? To explore those outcomes?”

“More like to try to control them, unfortunately.” He smiled, “Apparently I’m great at creating characters, settings, conflicts... but I have a long way to go when it comes to wrapping their stories up, if you’re to believe the elite theatre critics all over the country.”

I couldn’t help but smile. I had wondered about Phillip and his plays, and hearing him talk so freely like this about a topic he was known to avoid made me feel special. He was comfortable talking about it with me.

“Maybe I could give you some feedback... I’ve always loved the theatre.” I said,

“Have you?”

“When I was younger I used to sit at the steps of the Bowery and just stay there sometimes for hours... imagining how it would feel like to go in one day and experience some of the greats first hand.” I was smiling as I made this confession but he looked serious. “Anyway,” I continued, “I would’ve loved watching one of your plays. Or read one.”

Was he... embarrassed? 

“I really would, I mean that.”

“Thank you.” He said, hesitant. “Maybe some of my earlier work if you must.”

“I’d like that.”

It was a pleasant conversation, minutes seem to fly past whenever we get to talking. Which has been happening more often lately.

Just a couple of days after that I found a box at my doorstep. There was a purple bellflower inside it, resting on top of a bulky portfolio. There were three different plays in that portfolio. I read them all in one night, savoring each word, imagining every scene as it were being performed in front of me.

His writing is so meticulous, so precise. Just like him. The three stories were so different but you could tell they were all written from the heart. From an inherently passionate soul who wanders and searches for meaning, desperate to reach out. He most have been barely of age when he wrote these ones. It made my heart ache. I wanted so badly to hold him, tell him that I understand because I’ve been there myself. But of course I must restrain. 

And much like he did through his plays back then, I shall use my art to yell out everything I can’t say out loud but can hardly contain within me. And hope that through that expression my voice can finally be heard. Maybe even understood if heard by the right person.

Until next time.  
Anne


End file.
